“Nothing,” I lie. “Absolutely nothing.”
He nods once, accepting the dismissal. “The documents will be ready at ten. We leave early.”
15
ALARIC
She’s goingto be the death of me.
I watch from my office window as Kasimira walks through the gardens wearing a white dress that should be illegal. The fabric clings to her body like a second skin, and the halter neck leaves her back completely exposed. Her hair flows over her shoulders in dark waves that catch the morning sunlight.
Maria knocked an hour ago to inform me that my wife was ready for the day’s business. The way she said “ready” with that knowing smile suggested I might not be prepared for whatever Kasimira had planned.
She was right.
A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts. “Sir? The car is ready.”
“We’ll be right there.”
I find her in the main foyer, examining a painting like she’s considering buying it. The dress is even worse up close—white silk that hugs every curve, with a neckline that dips dangerouslylow. She’s not wearing a bra. I can tell because the fabric moves with her breathing, and the outlines of her nipples are clearly visible.
“Ready?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
“As I’ll ever be.” She turns to face me, and the movement makes the dress shift in ways that draw my eyes to places they shouldn’t go.
The drive to the dock takes ten minutes through winding roads that cut through expensive neighborhoods. Kasimira stares out the window, seemingly fascinated by the passing scenery. I try to focus on the documents we’ll be signing today, on the legal transfer that will make her one of the richest women in the state.
Instead, I keep glancing at the way the seat belt cuts between her breasts.
“Tell me about this boat,” she says as we pull into the marina.
“It’s a yacht. And it’s for business, not pleasure.”
“Looks expensive.”
The Moretti Pearl sits at the end of the private dock, forty feet of Italian engineering with white hull, teak decking, enough room for entertaining clients who prefer their business meetings away from prying eyes.
“Mr. Moretti,” the captain greets us as we board. “Beautiful day for a cruise.”
“Just get us to the city, Ronnie.”
Kasimira wanders the deck while the engines warm up, trailing her fingers along the polished railings. The yacht pulls awayfrom the dock smoothly, cutting through blue water toward the Manhattan skyline.
“This is nice,” she calls over the sound of the engines. “Very…mafia-esque.”
She moves to the front railing, leaning against it with her arms spread wide. The pose pushes her chest forward, and the wind whips her hair around her face like she’s posing for a magazine.
That’s when I hear the whistles.
A party boat is approaching from the south, packed with men in their twenties who are clearly day-drinking and looking for entertainment. They spot Kasimira immediately, whooping and calling out comments that make my blood boil.
“Hey, beautiful!”
“Nice dress!”
“Show us what’s underneath!”
Kasimira turns toward them and smiles. A real smile, bright and mischievous and completely unlike the cold expressions she usually gives me.
